


eyes like yours (can't look away)

by PandaHero



Category: Persona 2
Genre: inspired mostly by 'dna' by lia marie johnson, jumbled jun mom angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 18:54:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10039886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandaHero/pseuds/PandaHero
Summary: 'i'm just so scared you're who i'll be.'





	

**Author's Note:**

> angst??

Relatives, family friends, men whose voices he recognizes from birthdays passed, they all tell Jun the same thing; “You have your mother’s eyes.”  
  
Jun thinks of his mother often. It’s not something he likes to share (what is there to share, really,) and it’s not something he particularly likes to admit. She hurt him, she _ruined_ him, (she couldn’t have, he’s lying, he must be lying,) and yet she has stayed with him all this time. She is always there, somewhere, no matter where Jun looks his mother will always be there.  
  
His friends insist on calling her Junko, when the topic arises, but Jun still calls her mother, (she raised him, took care of him, it’s only fair.) He knows they mean well, that they are trying to help in separating him from her, but it’s no use, (she will continue to stay, even though she is gone, even though she’s gone and it’s _his fault._ )  
  
She will always, always be with him. A ghost, a memory. (He should be grateful. _H_ _e should be grateful._ ) He cannot escape her clutches, the grip of her manicured nails scratching across his shoulders, scraping his neck as she tugs on the back of his shirt collar. He cannot escape, because there are pieces of her laying deep within him; tucked firm into the crevices of his mind, curled up in the beats of his heart. And it terrifies him.  
  
(And he is horrible for thinking so. He is a horrible son.)  
  
He thinks of his mother most in fear, in terror, _horror_ , waiting to one day see her in the mirror. Waiting for the pieces still with him, for her eyes, to sew and stitch themselves anew across his body until he matches her image, (but children should want to be like their parents, he is being selfish.) He waits, shaking, for his smile to grow lecherous, for the scent of hard whiskey to become appealing, for his temper to become glass.  
  
For it is inevitable, really. No matter how hard he tries, how much attention he pays to his words and actions, he will become his mother. It’s in his DNA, written code carried through his veins. It has already started. He has her eyes, and soon, he will have everything else.  
  
Still, he fights it, (throws a fit, a tantrum, acts out like the horrible child he is.) He hides his face, hides his _eyes_ , be it behind a mask, his hair, or his sleeved and shaking hands. He fears his own smile, cannot stand the sound of his laughter, afraid that they will drive others off, afraid that they have changed since he was young. (Mother had always told him to hide away, to be neither seen nor heard, and he is listening, he is trying to be a _good_ son.)  
  
But no matter how much he covers himself, how much he hides, how much he _cowers_ , he cannot stop time. So he waits.  
  
He waits, in absolute, pure _fear_ , for his friends look at him the way he looked at his mother.


End file.
